A stray, blue balloon drifts stealthily by, passing the door to my neighbor’s garage, a gash in the otherwise undifferentiated suburban landscape.

It moves fast as if seeking its target, and I do not see it for some seconds afterwards.

Then, it drifts slowly back into view, bobbing listlessly in front of the garage as if it has forgotten the task with which it crossed with such bravado only moments before and it is ashamed.

I wish the balloon well, as I know its days are numbered.